


the damned lighthouse

by jemmasimmns (laurellance)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurellance/pseuds/jemmasimmns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lighthouse destroys him, and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning, till he’s seeing hallucinations of the dead and that goddamn gun sits in front of him just begging to be put against his head and pulled but he can’t ever manage to do it. </p><p>But somehow the hallucination of dad saves him, and it's a promise for better days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the damned lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> I usually put notes at the end, but all I can really say about this piece is that it's just really dark theme wise. 
> 
> Read at your own risk, I guess? 
> 
> anyway: my tumblr is chimerapack if you want to chat or anything, while my murphy loving ass blogs at dropshipjonty. :D

The windows don’t gleam of sunlight anymore. Instead, metal covers it and the more he tries to bang at it, break it away, the firmer it holds. The food stocks that had once seemed so precious hold no relative importance now, so they fall to the floor in bits and pieces, building up like muck.

 

At first he isn’t sure what’s going on, until some hallucination of a woman comes and talks to him. “Hello, John.” She’s got a blood red dress on- you’re choking connor, whose covered in his own blood- upturned hair-it feels like it could choke you, even if the scarring from the noose has healed- and she’s started spouting bullshit and it won’t stop. 

 

(You’re trapped, again, and you’re gonna lose your mind.)

 

The windows shut when she’s done. The scenery is no more, and all that remains is a dull gray metal coloured gleam that only reflects the damn interior in and out, in and out, and it’s always the same couch, the same TV, the same table, and suddenly it’s feeling like too much. 

 

The first few weeks, you try to somewhat shower and keep healthy. And no one tells you what a chore it feels like, especially when there’s no one whose gonna care, when you’re all alone trapped in a lighthouse with no way out. Showering becomes a pain, and so your stubble grows. Your hair gets greasier and greasier, and longer and longer. There’s no sense of caring, or even basic concern- not when the only person who could come was a psychotic hallucination. 

 

By the time the second month arrives, you’ve already broken in the couch, and all the alcohol ends up being opened and drank at whenever possible. There’s jack, vodka, and whatever other brands that sit at random places in the damned room, and it becomes a game of drinking whatever combination that makes him feel the sickest, because even feeling like your body hates you is still better than feeling nothing. 

 

(You’ve felt numb for a long time, and alcohol makes you feel like you’re even somewhat living)

 

The damned suicide video the man recorded plays daily, and you wonder what it’s like. To feel like you have absolutely nothing left, that you would and could willingly end your own life just to make yourself feel satisfied. It becomes ritual, to watch the man shoot himself and he’s so lucky he can do it. Because the man is so blessed, because he isn’t trapped in this damn bunker seeing a hallucination of a psychotic bitch, being trapped in the walls of a thought to be sanctuary. 

 

The hallucinations get worse. Because you’ve gotten to the point where alcohol can't even make you feel alive, and you still feel numb, so now the content of the bottles are covering your skin, your clothes, and you feel something for a change and you can’t describe how good it feels. 

 

And now dead Finn Collins is pleading you to stop whatever the fuck you’re doing because ‘you’re gonna kill yourself’ and ‘it’s gonna be ok’ and fuck Finn, he’s dead and has been dead ever since he’s had the misfortune of listening to Reyes sob over his dead body. The irony of it all, is that- in the end, Collins hadn’t been a bad person. Too peaceful, too well intentioned, too pure a part of him says, and the only joy that had come out of his death was Reyes sobbing over his dead body. 

 

(Part of you screams, that he had tried to stop the hanging.)

 

Collins comes back, and how many times does he scream at the hallucination that it won’t, that he’s trapped here, worthless and insignificant and that it’s a good thing John Murphy’s useless, because no one would care about him anyway. And Collins tells him lies, the typical bullshit that he _does_ mean something, that he isn't a total failure to everyone and one day you tell the hallucination that he should _just go away_ because goddamnit, he’s really losing his mind now, hallucinating a dead person. 

 

They stop for now, but he’s sure that he dreams Collins once one last time, and they’re peaceful. He finds a gun one day, buried under the floorboards with a note: _For Emergencies Only_.

 

(Is it really a emergency when he’s been drowning for so long?)

 

He lies on the floor, his hand positioned close to gun as if he’s gonna pull through with it but something’s always holding him back and he’s not sure why he can’t just pull the trigger already and end his suffering. The man in the video had, quite easily in the end. So why can’t he make himself pull the trigger onto his own brain, and let himself be free?

 

He’s got no one left, no one left that would even bat an eye for his concern. He’s lived so long without family, with our anything, and maybe he’s living on spite, maybe hate, but why can’t he just end his pain already? Just one pull of the trigger against his head and done, he’s finally free. 

 

He’s about to do it one day, when a hallucination of his dad appears. Pull the damn trigger, when the next thing he knows his dad pulls the gun away, crouches down and whispers “you don’t have to do this.” It’s the same tone dad had had, the way he had sounded in the last thing he had said to him when he was living: desperate, hopeful, and only now dad’s crying more. Dad’s grabbing his hand, the first time anyone’s done that in years, and his palms are just are rough as they had been when he was living, and he’s hugging him, and they both can’t stop crying. 

 

Dad’s rubbing his hair, holding him, and he’s bawling on dad’s shoulder because he’s never experienced this, because he can’t remember the last time that anyone’s ever done this, and it feels so comforting and happy and he doesn’t care if it’s not real. “I’m so proud of you, so so proud of you..” and dad’s talking and he’s all but collapsed onto him sobbing, and dad’s talking and talking and talking and holding him and he wants it to last forever. 

 

(He hides the gun away, and cleans himself up afterwards; and the mantra of dad telling him how proud he is of him never goes away.)


End file.
